Angels and Devils
by RobertaWickham
Summary: Fantine goes out to a dance with Tholomyès, and meets an angry young man.


The waltz came to an end, with a long and triumphant flourish by the fiddler.

Fantine shied a little from Tholomyès when the fiddler stopped. He wouldn't let her break away, though, but held her clasped close. She blushed—it seemed so shameless, even here, even in this dance hall, even though she'd given herself to him and borne his child. But he was her love, and she didn't want to seem cold to him, and she _liked_ his arms around her, and so she leaned in, resting her head on his shoulder.

"My beautiful one," he murmured, kissing the top of her head. Fantine sighed, and forgot the world. There was no one as ardent as him, no one who made her feel as carefree and loved.

Cosette was at home. Zéphine had agreed to watch her, since Fameuil was away from Paris and Zéphine's other gentleman friend had other business that night. Fantine couldn't help worry Cosette would miss her—but surely it would be all right. Zéphine would take care of her. Zéphine was a good woman, and Fantine's friend.

"Let's go home," said Tholomyès, when he was ready to break away. Fantine nodded, and took his hand. As was her habit, she kept her eyes lowered as they walked out of the dance hall. She didn't see the young man standing just outside the door, who Tholomyès shouldered roughly on his way out.

The young man did not take it meekly. "Watch where you're going, my friend—you're not near drunk enough to excuse being so graceless."

The street had no lamp, but the half-moon's silvery light struck the young man's face, giving him an eerie, devilish look. Fantine drew closer to Tholomyès. With his accent, the young man sounded like the people who came up from the southern countryside.

Tholomyès, proud Toulousain that he was, gave a scornful laugh. "A boy fresh from the farm talks to me of grace? Grace, from a country boy! What's next, a lecture on philosophy from a horse? A discourse on art and beauty from a dog? Listen carefully, my boy—if I want to learn how to milk a cow or clean the dung from a barn, I'll seek your advice, but I will leave a Parisian dance hall as I please. "

"Tholomyès," Fantine said softly, wishing there wouldn't be a fight, but he didn't hear.

The young man drew himself up. He was younger than Tholomyès—perhaps eighteen or nineteen. He was shorter than Tholomyès, too, but broad of shoulder, well-muscled, and very well-dressed, with his elegant coat and bold waistcoat. "It would do you good to milk a few cows, bourgeois. You might learn a few things from them. They have better manners and better brains—"

Fantine squirmed. Her fingers tightened around Tholomyès's hand. Tholomyès gave another short laugh, but his face reddened with anger. "Yes, I've no doubt you peasants love your cows, and your pigs, too—your mother evidently did, from the looks of you—"

The young man punched Tholomyès in the stomach. Tholomyès doubled over and fell backwards onto the ground, releasing Fantine's hand. Fantine gasped and ran to him. She tried to pull him up by his arm, but he shrugged her off with a snarl, still red-faced.

Fantine's eyes widened, and filled with tears. She'd done nothing to deserve his anger.

The young man, evidently agreeing, said, "Come now, it's not her fault." He came over and offered Tholomyès a hand to help him up. "You insulted my mother, and I hit you for it, and now there's no sense in bearing grudges—"

Tholomyès, disregarding the offered hand, reached up to strike the young man in the face. He stood up with a faint smirk as the young man reeled back. "Tholomyès," Fantine murmured again. This—this didn't seem kind, but she didn't know how to tell him so.

"Come, my little Fantine," Tholomyès said, turning away hurriedly, as the young man staggered back upright.

Fantine cast an uncertain glance at the young man, and called out timidly, "Are you hurt, monsieur?"

"Come," Tholomyès said again, tugging on her arm. She obeyed, but not fast enough: the young man caught up with them, rushing at Tholomyès and shoving him into the gutter.

Fantine wanted to go to Tholomyès, but didn't want to upset him again. So she stood, waiting for him to get up. The young man waited as well, his hands balled into fists.

Tholomyès got to his feet, glaring at the young man, who glared right back. They circled each other slowly, and drew away in opposite directions, Tholomyès towards Fantine, the young man to the other end of the street.

Tholomyès escorted Fantine home, complaining all the while about vulgar bumpkins who didn't know up from down. Fantine laughed, for Tholomyès could be very amusing when he made fun of someone. All the same, she felt uneasy, and a little ashamed. The young man had been rude and boorish, but…Tholomyès had been unkind. All the same, she turned her face up eagerly for his goodnight kiss when they reached her door. His lips brushed hers perfunctorily; he didn't linger before leaving.

Fantine felt hurt. But he was upset by that boy's rudeness. Surely Tholomyès loved her still, and would be warm and tender with her again tomorrow.

She went up the stairs to her apartment. When she opened the door, she saw Zéphine sitting beside the bed, a piece of brown paper and a pencil in her hands. The pencil flew across the paper. Fantine could see by the yellow candlelight that it was drawing a picture.

"She's sound asleep," said Zéphine, looking up and letting her pencil go still.

Fantine hung up her pelisse on a hook by the door, and came over to see Cosette lying on the bed. Her baby's eyes were shut and her breaths were slow and soft. For a long moment, Fantine just looked at her, in her neat little nightdress with its lace and its blue ribbon, and her tiny curls, and her snub nose.

"She's a pretty child," Zéphine said. Fantine bent to kiss Cosette's fat little cheek. When she straightened, she caught sight of Zéphine's picture again.

It was a drawing of the room, with the moon shining in through the window and falling on Cosette's face. It looked so real. The gray lines on the brown paper looked like true moonlight. "I didn't know you knew how to draw."

Zéphine shrugged. "A little."

"How did you learn?" Cosette looked like a little angel in the drawing, exactly like she always did to Fantine's eyes.

"The art student I went about with last year—do you remember him? He taught me some. Though I already knew a little. I started drawing the first time I saw a pencil. I was ten, I think, but I just always wanted…" Zéphine shrugged again, and stood up. "I should be off."

Fantine took Zéphine's pelisse off the other chair and handed it to her. "Wanted what?"

Zéphine wrapped the pelisse around her tightly and adjusted her hair, letting the picture fall to the ground. "I like beautiful things," she said finally. "I wanted to make them."

Fantine picked up the picture and handed to Zéphine, who shook her head with a careless air. "You keep it, if you want."

"Thank you," Fantine said, startled into a smile.

Zéphine kissed her cheek. "Good night, my dear." Fantine closed the door behind her, and smoothed out the picture, and pinned it to the wall. She smiled again. Her little Cosette was as lovely as any stained glass in a church.

The next morning, Fantine dressed Cosette in her favorite sky-blue frock with the matching little hat, to go out for a walk. Fantine herself wore a dress of a darker blue, with pretty lace work around the neck, so she and her little girl would look well together. She hoisted Cosette up, balancing her in the crook of one arm, with a grunt of effort. Cosette was still small enough for Fantine to carry without too much hardship, but she was growing fast. She was already bigger than she had been just last week.

They lived near the Latin Quarter. Fantine loved to walk right there and watch all the people going by. Cosette liked it, too. She would watch with wide blue eyes, and sometimes point with her little fists, and squeal and babble.

They had only walked one block when they came upon the young man from the night before. Fantine could see his brightly flowered waistcoat under his coat—it caught the eye, with its rich reds and violets. He stopped short when he saw them, recognizing Fantine. "Mademoiselle," he said, with a half-bow.

"Monsieur," Fantine said in response. She felt she should be cold to him, for he'd hit Tholomyès and made him angry. But she couldn't manage it.

"I see you have a much more agreeable companion now than you did last night." He smiled at Cosette. Cosette regarded him solemnly for a moment before smiling back, giggling as he made a funny face at her and waggled his fingers.

"Why, yes—I mean, no—" Fantine frowned. She could never resist a compliment to Cosette, but he had no business insulting Tholomyès.

The young man grinned at her. "My name is Bahorel, mademoiselle."

"I'm Fantine," she said, feeling a little flustered. There was something shameless and insinuating about Bahorel's grin. She felt he shouldn't be grinning at her like that. But then she thought she was being silly, and surely it was harmless. "My daughter is Euphrasie, but I call her Cosette," she added. Perhaps he would behave more soberly once he knew she was a mother.

Bahorel's expression didn't alter. "She's charming. Which means she must take after you."

Fantine, once she realized what he had said, let out her breath in a sharp hiss. "How dare you! You were the one who punched _him_."

"He hit me back, and after I offered to make peace, too!" Bahorel protested. "He left a bruise on my face—look, here it is." His voice rose plaintively, and he pointed to a small smudge of purplish blue on his left cheek, with a piteous air. But his eyes danced, and Fantine set her jaw.

"It's only a small thing," she said. "Surely that doesn't hurt a strong boy like you."

"Boy!" Bahorel drew himself up, offended. "I'm twenty. That's likely older than you are."

"I'm nineteen," Fantine admitted, "but you act like a child."

"Why, because I don't let your stupid bourgeois insult my mother? Do you let him insult yours?"

Fantine had never known any mother. Unconsciously, she held Cosette closer, and fell silent.

Bahorel evidently noticed. When he spoke again, it was in a softer voice. "Your pardon," he said. "I have no wish to fight with _you._ "

Fantine, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, shifted Cosette to her left arm. She shook out her right arm, which had grown tired. "Yes," she said. "Well. I don't blame you for fighting him." The words seemed to speak themselves. She hadn't meant to say that. But now it was said, and somehow she found she didn't wish to take it back.

The shameless grin flashed across Bahorel's face again. He stepped forward to make another face at Cosette, who squealed with delight, and stretched a tiny hand out to him. "Are you trying to hit me, my little mademoiselle? Is that what you're doing? To punish me, for quarreling with your lovely mother?"

Fantine laughed. It was a quiet laugh, but laugh she did.

"I will accept my punishment with a good grace and leave you to your business, then," said Bahorel, with a theatrical bow.

She had no business—well, except for the pile of sewing sitting untouched at home. But she couldn't think of a reason for Bahorel to stay, and so she said, "Goodbye, and if we meet again, I hope we don't quarrel."

"I hope we do," Bahorel said with spirit. "I like a good quarrel. But I hope our next quarrel is over something of greater import than your unpleasant friend."

Fantine's eyes narrowed. Her mouth opened for a retort. But before she could think what to say, Bahorel had vanished round the corner. She knew then she wanted to meet him again, if only to berate him properly.

She sighed, and switched Cosette back to her right arm, and headed home.


End file.
